


as if you ate the sun ☀

by peachyteabuck



Category: mission Impossible: fallout
Genre: Creampie, F/M, Face Slapping, Humiliation, Riding, Unprotected Sex, sub!male
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-18 07:28:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28739514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachyteabuck/pseuds/peachyteabuck
Summary: august walker’s current mission is to find you. things do not go as planned.
Relationships: August Walker/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	as if you ate the sun ☀

The club pulses with the beat of the song that blares from speakers that circle August like hunters surrounding their prey.

As he watches sweaty bodies dance with more, sweatier bodies, he doesn’t think he’s ever been more uncomfortable in his entire life. August Walker is a spy – a pretty damned good one – and is most comfortable trying to hide away in plain sight. Here, though, there’s nowhere to hide – especially when he’s an inadequately dressed for a gross club in the middle of the city located in a previously abandoned warehouse. He attempts to ignore everything going on around and focus on the tracking device in his hand.

Its screen flashes neon green directions as he holds it in his palm, directing him through the crowd of sweaty, intoxicated people who occasionally grope at him as he passes. He stares at it, giving every coked-up raver and drunk sorority girl the most frigid of all cold shoulders – making sure he never misses a single one of those _beep_ s and its accompanying vibration.

As August approaches the bar, the device’s intermittent noises turn into a continuous symphony. The sounds make his racing heart calm just a second, joy of locating his target making his sour mood increase _just_ a little.

“Trackpad?” he asks, attempting to make his voice louder than the music. He assumes the bar tender – some teenage boy with heavy acne and gangly limbs and a fake ID that he uses to keep his job burning a hole in his pocket – will shoot his head up before trying to bolt.

But he doesn’t respond. In fact, no one responds.

 _Fuck_ , he curses to himself. He must’ve been made.

But when he turns around, his heart stops for an entirely different reason.

The woman in front of him, sipping from bright green drink with one of those stupid skinny straws, is gorgeous. She’s got long, sharp, dark nails with full lips painted the same color, white teeth that shine under the lights of the club. She’s wearing this lacey, strappy bralette with a high-waisted matching black skirt, fishnets, thick black boots.

And that’s just what he can see of her from the back. He’s so wrapped up in her he almost knocks into her.

Luckily, you turn around at just the right time, noses nearly touching as the club pulses around the both of you. August feels as if he’s stuck in the chamber of the heart of a beast, the whole of its flesh contracting around him before letting go right before his lungs can stop sucking air in and out.

“Hello, August,” you say calmly, taking another sip as soon as you finish the last syllable of his name.

The man blinks in surprise, obviously taken aback. Still, he tries to remain calm as he responds. “Hello to you, too, Trackpad. Nice to finally meet you.”

“No, it isn’t.” You huff, taking another sip. “Don’t look so shocked. What, you were expecting some gangly teenage boy?” you snicker as you sip at your drink. August remains stoic. “Thought I was going to be some puny thing with pimples living in their mother’s basement?”

August swallows what little spit is left in his mouth but doesn’t disagree. Instead, he attempts to stutter out the only thing that he can manage. “How did you know?”

“No offense, handsome but you stick out like a sore thumb in this place,” you say, gesturing to the rest of the grimy club and then to August’s impeccably ironed button-up shirt and tie. “Plus, it isn’t all that hard to back-hack the CIA, _and_ the organization you’re actually apart of-“

You stop yourself to laugh as another wave of confusion washes over his face.

“Oh, sorry,” you feign an apology. “Did I blow your cover?” You continue when August says nothing. “In all honesty, I’m surprised it took you this long to find me, I was dropping more Panko than needed to fry a chicken.”

August’s perplexed face cuts your laugh at your own joke short, so you change the subject.

“If you buy me a drink, I’ll tell you everything you want to know, big boy.”

He perks up at that, confidence flooding back into his veins. “A pretty girl like you, I didn’t think it’d be that easy.”

“Oh, it’s not,” you down the rest of drink, forgoing the straw, before slamming it down onto the nearby bar and throwing an unspecified amount of cash next to it. “But you’re adorable and I think it’s really cute that you think so. Come on, I’ll take you somewhere where we can talk.”

After you grab your perfectly fitted leather jacket - you lead him to the back of the club and then outside, into a back alley with a single streetlamp and people who pass only to give you a small jut of the chin.

A few moments of silence pass between you both as you light a joint you had hidden in the left cup of your top, letting the cool night air stick to the sweat that covers your body in a fine, salty layer.

“You looked surprised when I said I had you made,” you tell him between exhales.

He shrugs. “To be honest…I was. I didn’t expect that.”

“Yeah,” you snort. “As if I’d be outsmarted by some measly little…” You scrunch up your nose as you attempt to find the right word.

“Anarchist,” he fills in the blank for you. Your nose only scrunches up more. “I’m an anarchist.”

“No, _I’m_ an anarchist,” you sneer, licking the last taste of liquor from your lips. “Do you even have underground meetings and nicknames? A list of international government hacker contacts? Nah, you’re anti-state. Or anti-government. I can never remember what you all are calling yourselves now.”

August huffs out a small laugh while he pointedly avoiding your gaze as the beat to whatever rap song is playing shakes the wall he leans against. You bounce just a little, just to tell him you’re aware of your surroundings and that you’re not taking this as seriously as he’d like you to. “There’s a difference?”

By contrast, your laughter comes out as a staccato bark. “Ask a libertarian.”

The corners of August’s lips don’t even move as your quip hits him, another disappointing blow.

“Anyway, you’re coming back to my apartment, this is no place to talk about important matters.”

You stick the joint back between your teeth before gesturing for him to follow you.

The two of you are approaching a large apartment building when you flick the last bit of the joint onto the cement and crush it under your boot. “By the way, my roommate went home with one of the dancers when I took you outside, so we’ll be alone, in case you were wondering if anyone was going to be eavesdropping.”

August huffs out a laugh. “You’re an internationally known hacker, known for exposing political assassinations, and false claims of nuclearization…”

“That is true.”

“And you have a roommate?”

You shrug. “That is also true.”

“…Why?”

You laugh as you find the key on your cluttered key ring, opening the door. “Rent is high, I get lonely, and connections are the only thing that matter in this business. Any further questions?”

August shakes his head and he follows you through the apartment. It’s much cleaner than he imagined (but you’re much prettier than he imagined, too, so maybe he should adjust his standards), even though he only gets a quick glance at the living room and short hallway as you push him into the bedroom. As you empty your jacket pockets and then sling it over the expensive gaming chair a friend had given you a few months prior when you started complaining about back pain (you had no idea the kind of anguish an improper chair would cause you before you began hacking full time), you see August standing in your room like an emotionally absent father taking his daughter to some fast fashion retailor after missing a major life event.

It’s hysterical, and if your entire being wasn’t focused on breaking him down piece by piece, you’d make fun of him for it.

 _Whatever_ , you tell yourself. _He’ll be back again eventually. You can have all the fun you want with him then._

“Listen, I’m going to tell it to you straight: I’m a woman with needs, and with the social circles I belong to most men I interact with know neither what they are or how to fulfill them,” you pause to look him up and down like a piece of meat from a prized hog. “And, despite your piss poor performance at the club, you look like you know how to please a woman. So, you’re going to fuck me, and you’re going to fuck me good,” you tell him, face millimeters from yours. “And then, if you behave for me, I’ll tell you what your boss wants to hear.”

A blush forms on his cheek – you wouldn’t have caught through the low light and his facial hair if it wasn’t so _deep_.

 _God, he’s adorable_ , you think.

“It’s your choice, baby,” you move towards him to lean in his ear. “If you want to be rewarded, you have to _behave_.”

He kneels easy, so easy it almost makes you disappointed.

You don’t have much time to dwell on what the image of forcing him to his knees looks like, because you then realize that he’s refusing to look up at you – his eyes instead fliting between the floor and some void behind you. Immediately you hand cups his chin, forcing his eyes to meet yours.

“You belong to me,” you growl. “You’re _mine_ , yeah?”

He nods without hesitation, eyes screwed shut as he moans. “Yes, Mistress.”

A sinister smile paints itself across your face. “You’re so cute when you’re desperate, you know…”

You take a second to admire him – clothed but hard as Hell under his dark brown slacks with his muscles tense from denying himself the space to let go.

“You’re an adorable little boy, aren’t you?” you purr, thumbing over his plump lips. “I don’t know, I wonder if you’ve been good…do you deserve to fuck me?”

August immediately whines high in his throat, sending another wave of arousal through you. You grab his tie to pull his face close to yours as you bend down.

“Maybe you should beg for it.”

Somehow, you’re _more excited_ when he just bares his teeth for you.

“Aw, baby boy,” you silence him before he can even open his mouth while pressing your boot against the tent in his pants. “Listen, it’s obvious you want to fuck me, make me scream, for me to use you like the little toy you are. And, honestly, I want to ride you until you’re weeping. But it’s your choice, big guy. Are you going to behave, or not?”

August’s eyes never stray from yours as you both stare at each other – waiting for the other to break. You both stay like that, eyeing each other like dogs in a fighting ring, until he finally cracks and bows his head once more.

“ _Good_ boy,” you purr. “Now strip.”

As he does as he’s told, you hike your skirt up and rip a hole in your fishnets over your aching core, using your boot to push him flat onto the ground the second his bare chest is presented to you. He grunts as his body hits the floor, the thin black carpet not doing much to cushion the blow.

August watches you with the wide eyes of a predator in then night as you mount him, hovering your bare, soaked pussy over his aching cock. He stays silent with bated breath, watching your cunt as it slowly, _painfully_ swallows his leaking member.

 _“Jesus_ ,” you moan, planting one hand in the center of his broad chest while the other continues to guide him inside of you. “I was right about you, you know. Knew the second you had the balls to come after me that you had the shaft to match.”

The man under you tries to respond, but before he can he’s met with a loud _SMACK!_

August moans as the sting of the slap is overwhelmed by a duller pleasure, his eyes screwed shut as his hands grip your hips through your clothes.

“Now lay back, and _don’t_ touch me until I tell you to,” you hiss. With another slap – this time to his knuckles – they find their way back to the floor. His immediate action draws a small chuckle from you, one more demeaning than anything else you’d done that night. “You know, that’s why you’ll never be a real anarchist…you’re much too desperate to follow whatever order anyone gives you.”

He squirms under you but doesn’t deny your career-ending accusation. “Pretty little lapdog,” you lean down to purr into his ear. “Just waiting for his next command…”

August doesn’t outwardly agree – but the deep moan that escapes his lips says more than words ever could. The agent doesn’t know which part of you he should be paying the most attention to – his eyes a torn between watching your tits bounce and your face contort in pleasure, his fingers itching to rub at your clit or hold your hips so hard they bruise.

It doesn’t take long for his hands to find their way to your ass to guide you, and he’s met once again with your hand flying across his other cheek.

“Did you get permission to do that?” you hiss, holding his square jaw in one hand. Immediately, his hands recede back down to the floor, flat on the thin carpet once more. The quick reaction brings a smile to yours face. “Good little pretty boy likes following orders, huh? Likes having rules?”

Despite the man’s best efforts, his face heats up once more. Unlike before, though, you’re able to comment on it.

“You’re so cute for someone so burly,” you tease, “Such a big, strong man should be able to easily overpower such a helpless little thing like me…should be able to flip me over and take me. But if you misbehave you won’t get praised, right? Won’t get what you crave so desperately from me? You know, I wonder if men like you join up with the organizations you’re so fond of because you think the structure you hunger for will be found there…”

August comes inside of you with a shout that eerily sounds like an “I love you.” Neither of you comment on the likeness as you both climb into the unmade bed, a single thick duvet pushed aside as the sex-thick air keeps you both warm.

Despite every instinct of August’s screaming at him not to, he stays the night – eventually the pair of you making your way into the queen-sized bed that sits opposite your computer set up.

He’s exhausted – you both are – and easily fall asleep in the large bed, its size giving you enough room that neither of you really have to touch. He wakes up a few hours later, with sweat still clinging to him and his muscles screaming for water. Beside August, you’re fast asleep, not even stirring as he takes a moment to stretch.

He realizes, then, that he’s failed.

Not only has the mission failed (he’s been found, there’s no way you’d give up the information his bosses wanted now), but he’s failed as an _agent_. What’s the first time they teach you when you join the Central Intelligence Agency, or any agency worth its name (or lack thereof)?

 _Nothing is more important than the work_. He’d not only lost focus, but _submitted_ to some woman he’d been tracking for months. He’d taken one look at you after planning your capture and everything that’d been beaten into him had fallen aside. The second you both locked eyes, nothing felt more important than knowing the feeling of your lips or your nails against his skin, of the sound of your contented sighs and words of praise. When he followed you out of the club, August Walker had decided that knowing what it felt like to have your hand wrapped around his neck was more important than anything else in the entire world.

In that moment, August Walker had decided to fail. And for the first time in his life, he’s okay with it.

He wakes up hours later to the sound of not one, but _two_ , people chatting in the open plan kitchen he passed by on his way in last night. It’s another woman – judging by the pitch.

 _Probably the roommate_ , he thinks. As he steps closer – careful to keep his feet silent – the sounds of giggles and the type of gossip the female young recruits whisper about fill the room. He watches from behind the corner.

“And then he pulls out this strap-!”

Your laughter cuts off the other voice, but it attempts to continue.

“And he goes, _can you do me now?”_

“Did you do it?” you ask.

Your roommate snorts. “Uh, fuck yeah I did. I never give up a chance to saddle up, if you know what I mean…” A few moments pass before the tone shifts ever so slightly. “How did last night?”

Somehow, August can hear you shrug. “Oh, had a few drinks and got a few numbers.”

The roommate snorts again. “And that?”

“And _that_ is that pretty little thing I picked up last night…” you say, gesturing to the man who, until that moment, had thought neither of the women in the kitchen could hear them. He comes out from behind the corner, gesturing awkwardly with his chin.

“Aw, for me?” Your roommate quips. She doesn’t look anything like you, shoeless in a plain neon t-shirt cropped (hastily, by the look of the ragged edges) and low-waisted sweatpants – bags under her half-open eyes

“Don’t sass me,” you reply with an eye roll. “Don’t worry, he’s harmless. He’s not gonna tell anybody about anything, are you, big boy?”

Just like in the club, August says nothing. The only difference between him then and him now is the slight flush that’s dusted itself across his cheeks.

"I’m not caffeinated enough for this,” the roommate groans again, taking another sip of the liquid gold in her hands.

Your snorty laughter fills the room, just like it did in the club. “You’ve had over 46 ounces of coffee.”

“What’s your point?”

You give a snort and roll your eyes before grabbing her cup to take a sip of the overly-sugared beverage, her tired state leaving her unable to fight against your offensive cup-stealing strategy. “Now August,” you beckon him over between sips. “Why don’t you tell my roomie here what we did last night?”


End file.
